Today an article went up on the Guardian that made me desperately sad. In the wake of a woman being murdered by her partner, with whom she was said to be in a BDSM relationship, Emer O’Toole explains that we should examine the impact of BDSM – as if the murderer’s label of ‘Sir’ is in any way more significant than the fact that he was an abusive, evil, murderous prick.

I’m going to warn you, this story gets more awful and troubling with the context so you might not want to read on.

Recently I had a chat with a mate of mine who is signed up to a couple of dating sites. Tinder, OKCupid, whatever it is the kids these days are using to hook up with people. She explained to me that her greatest bugbear is guys who – after she’s ignored their first message (or more likely first deluge of messages) – say ‘hey, you could at least tell me no rather than just ignoring me. It’s polite to say something, after all.’

No.

Hear this: I can totally see why your average dude might be confused by that. That unequivocal ‘no’ looks a bit harsh, doesn’t it? If you’re someone who sends a lot of dating messages only to be met with tumbleweed, you might think ‘hey, GOTN, that’s not very nice. I’d reply to everyone, so why shouldn’t they reply to me?’

A couple of years ago, I was wandering aimlessly around central London when I stumbled across a truly magnificent thing: the London Naked Cycle Ride. A whole bunch of different people, some painted, some in capes, some on rollerskates, most on bikes – all naked. Most smiling. Some looking a bit chilly (it’s London, after all). It was a pretty amazing thing. As someone who is incredibly insecure about my own body, the temptation to take part in one of these events is often outweighed by the terror of anticipating the moment I’d have to strip off. So I’m delighted to welcome this week’s guest blogger – Chris – who’s going to talk to you about what it’s like to take part in an event like this. In his case, it’s a clothing-optional run.

Far more than just a nudist account, though, this is a blog about Chris overcoming his insecurities. Chris has a micropenis. Not just a ‘small’ penis – he describes it as ‘the size and shape of a little sewing thimble.’ When he sent through this week’s guest blog about his naked run, Chris told me: “I never could have brought myself to have done it before about age 48, I was so worried about my worth as a man and sexual sufficiency being judged or ridiculed by others.” I’m really pleased that he’s happy to share such a personal journey.

When you tell someone a story, how much of it is true? Every detail? Probably not. Whenever you tell someone something that actually happened, there’ll be elements of it that you remember perfectly, and other elements that you don’t. You’ll perhaps gloss over some of the awkward details, or play them up to comic effect, or tell a story in a context which doesn’t fully explain the whys as well as the whats.

And so it is with sex stories.

During an email interview the other day, someone asked me how much of what I write is true. My initial, kneejerk response was: all of it. And that’s the simplest answer. Everything I write here – unless it’s specifically marked as a fantasy or bucket list shag – actually happened. But to say it like that is to gloss over what actually happens when you write up a sex story – whether it’s a relationship you had ten years ago, or a quickie you had last night.

From casual conversations held with friends in darkened rooms, while they don’t realise that I’ve got a guy’s dick tight inside me, to moments when people walk in while we’re fucking. That split second where they stand and stare and can’t work out how to extract themselves if the ground resolutely refuses to swallow them. I was going to write about that stuff this week. It was going to be light-hearted and fun and a bit hot. Then, as I was collating anecdotes and remembering past fucks that fit the bill, I stumbled upon a sex story I’ve never written up – a brief encounter so horny that I couldn’t let it go. While sex interruptions are frustrating at the time, I doubt this brief fuck would have burned so clearly in my mind unless we’d been disturbed partway through, adding a heart-thumping fear and greater urgency to everything.

I might still write about sex interruptions in general, but for now you can have this: the filthy sex story that’s sat in my head for the last four days and won’t stop bugging me until I’ve relived it properly. Some things are just like that, you know? Well, you’ll see.